


Pink Socks

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 02:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: rando meandering day :)





	Pink Socks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Sylvie widens her stance and shifts so her feet are firmly planted, the pink panda socks not even distracting her a little this time. She wriggles so her shorts to stop them rucking between her thighs and breathes out, trying to look intimidating. Porthos gives a low soft laugh and holds up his gloved hands, his own stance much more relaxed. He’s been boxing since he was little though and Sylvie’s only started a year ago, she’s hardly a threat to him. She waits a moment, then starts the short jabbing movement he wants her to practise today, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Porthos always makes her wear ankle supports if she wants to train without boots but Athos bought her pink ones that match her socks which is excellent. She’s not thinking about that at all. 

“Attention, Hubert,” Porthos reminds quietly. 

Sylvie stops thinking about her socks. They do exercises and training for an hour and then the second hour Porthos calls d’Artagnan over from the other side of the gym who’d been at the bag and he and Sylvie spar, Porthos leaning to watch, calling encouragement and correction. He matched them well, their skill level is almost equal. Sylvie’s a little stronger and quicker than him but he’s probably a little better. Porthos makes them both push themselves and by the end of the second hour they’re sweaty and ready to sit and drink a gallon of water. Porthos lets them drink the water but gets them started on a warm down instead of letting them rest. Sylvie doesn’t even have a chance to say ‘hi’ to d’Artagnan until Porthos finally calls a halt to proceedings (it feels like ‘finally’, today, even though her Sunday in the gym with Porthos is always 2.5 hours). 

“Yeah. He’s awful today,” d’Artagnan says, slightly breathless. 

“Least it’s not just me,” Sylvie says, as Porthos scowls at them both, arms crossed.

“Go shower,” Porthos says, shooing them away. 

When Sylvie comes back out to try and cajole Porthos into having lunch with her she finds him in the ring, shadow boxing. Aramis is leaning on the ropes with a bag of gummy worms, watching, calling out now and then with little jibes about Porthos’s stance or technique or speed. Sylvie leans beside him, takes a handful of worms, and joins in. d’Artagnan comes over and leans into Aramis’s side and distracts him. 

“Good work out, baby?” Aramis asks, kissing d’Artagnan’s temple.

“Yeah, thanks for bringing me here, Porthos is a really good teacher,” d’Artagnan says, turning to kiss Aramis’s lips. 

“Constance should come too,” Aramis says. 

“She doesn’t box,” d’Artagnan says, laughing. “Tai chi is not anything like boxing. How long have you guys been trying to convince her?”

“You are all the bane of my existence,” Porthos says, coming over and sitting cross-legged, leaning on the ropes between Aramis and Sylvie. “You’re very noisy.”

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan says. Aramis and Sylvie are both silent. Porthos waits expectantly. Sylvie looks at Aramis and he winks and she has to stifle laughter. 

“Right, I have work, bugger off the lot of you,” Porthos says, giving up on getting apologies. 

“Lunch,” Sylvie says. “Come on, I’ll take you to the restaurant. I’ll even pay.”

“Athos should feed me for free,” Porthos says. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

Sylvie does laugh, this time. It’s an ongoing argument between Athos and Porthos that Porthos should be able to eat at the restaurant for free. Athos holds that if he were to allow it Porthos would eat everything and leave nothing for other patrons and Athos would go bankrupt and the restaurant would collapse and he’d end up wandering the streets with no shoes (‘no SHOES, Porthos’). Sylvie’s never told Porthos that she is allowed to eat for free and Athos has told her he mostly holds his position on Porthos for the fun of it. Though, the danger of Porthos eating everything is very real: he loves Athos’s food. 

“If you don’t come to lunch with me I shall start a campaign of hiding your sweaty socks around your office and you’ll never find them,” Sylvie says. Then adds, when Porthos looks a little bewildered, “your socks stink.”

“Where do you think in my office will make a good hiding place for socks?” Porthos asks. “There’s only my desk, I lock the files, and I keep that completely neat and tidy, nowhere for a sock to hide. No, I shall stay here until Athos agrees to feed me for free.”

“He made dinner last night,” Aramis points out. “d’Artagnan and I are going to go there for lunch, anyway. I’m allowed to eat for free.”

“So unfair,” Porthos says. 

“I’ll take you to my favourite place instead,” Sylvie says, smiling. “We can take Athos, too, leave the kitchen to be terrorized by Treville only.”

“We can make Athos pay,” Porthos says, perking up and climbing out of the ring. He holds out his hands and Sylvie unstraps his gloves, pulling them off, and unwraps his hands, pressing a kiss to each wrist. “Thank you.”

They walk out with Aramis and d’Artagnan, Porthos pausing to give instruction to Brujon about how to run the gym even though Brujon has worked there for three years now. Brujon, used to Porthos being over-protective of his gym, nods along and makes faces when Porthos isn’t looking. d’Artagnan is red faced with trying not to laugh when they exit into the sun. They walk up to the restaurant together, the steep hill making Aramis breathless, Porthos resting now and then to let Aramis get his breath. 

“Stupid heart,” Aramis says, hand on his chest, when they reach the top. 

“It’s an excellent heart,” Porthos says. “You’ll get stronger now, with the new one. We’re working on it, you’re doing excellent.”

“Stupid Porthos,” Aramis says instead, elbowing him. Porthos just grunts agreeably and gives Aramis a half hug. “Love you pickles.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, nudging him forward, round the corner. 

Sylvie loves rounding that last corner and suddenly there it is, the sea spread out in front of her all the way to the horizon, the woods on the right having hidden it until then. Today it’s blue and calm, so blue it looks tropical instead of the freezing sea in freezing Wales. The sun’s out and even though it’s cloudy the water doesn’t seem to reflect the clouds, clear all the way down, like glass. To the left is the path that winds around and eventually to the small National Trust beach and, just a few feet down the path, the restaurant. A white one story building with the car park hidden at the back, the front a wide veranda that stretches right to the path, a gently sloped ramp up, tables either side, the cover a patchwork of glass and intricate metalwork that Athos commissioned Aramis to do last summer. Some of the glass at the edges is coloured and the light beneath is lovely. Sylvie planted some climbers a year or two ago and there’s green reaching from the building, now, around the wide windows to the inside. It’s muggy and Athos has the windows open and they can hear the quiet chatter of the customers, the distant sound of the kitchens. 

They head inside and Sylvie leaves the other three, heaving straight to the kitchen. Athos is stood by the stove, hair damp with the heat but tied back and held out of his face and the food by one of Porthos’s many bandana’s, often stolen by Athos in the summer for his hair. He’s frantic with energy, he and Treville sliding back and forth along their work station, twisting to call out commands to Clermont and Josephine, their staff today. Anne comes in with a request from the floor to meet the chef and Treville and Athos have a quick ‘rock paper scissors’, Athos winning with scissors, and Treville slumps out after their hostess. Anne is good at corralling the moody chefs and looking after the customers and is probably at least half the reason the place is successful. Sylvie isn’t particularly fond of Anne but she recognises her skill. Sylvie waits for Athos to notice her, enjoying watching him for the moment. He looks small here, even though he’s much taller than her and even almost as tall as Porthos, in reality. He glances at the door looking for the return of Treville and sees her, a great eager smile breaking across his face. He bounds over and kisses her in greeting already off again, the hot kitchen making him hot against her. 

“Nearly done with lunch,” Athos says. 

“You might be,” Clermont grumbles. 

Athos shouts at him about his sauce for that and Josephine laughs. When Treville returns Athos quickly talks him through what he’s doing in the short hand Sylvie doesn’t understand a word of that Treville and Athos have developed for the kitchen. Treville nods and shoves and Athos comes over, untying his apron, hanging it on it’s peg, tugging her out of the kitchen. He undoes the bandana as they step onto the floor, unties his hair so it falls limply about his face, runs his fingers over it and shakes his head so it settles more and stops clumping. 

“Porthos!” Athos exclaims, spotting him at the bar and bounding over bowling right into him and nearly knocking him down. “She dragged you away from work, too?”

“It’s Sunday,” Sylvie says. 

They both come over and Athos lets Porthos go in favour of holding her hand. Porthos walks beside them, hands in his pockets, perfectly content with the ordering. Sylvie leaves him to it and tucks herself against Athos, telling him about her morning. He listens attentively and pretends to be interested in exercise and boxing the duration of her talking about them. When she’s done he kisses her and tells her he cares not a bit about either but likes listening to her talk, which is charming. She’s suspicious, and is right to be it turns out. When she gets to her favourite restaurant, a Syrian restaurant, Athos walks right past and heads for one further down. Sylvie waits by the window of The Pickled Walnut and Athos waits by the window of the other. Porthos hovers between them. Their silent tussle continues until Sylvie gets bored and goes inside, asking for a table for three. Porthos and Athos join her after a moment. They eat quietly, Athos reaching over now and then to brush her hand with his, rub her shoulder, offer her a bite of what he’s eating. Porthos eats quickly and then sits back. Sylvie feels a bit distant from it all and she eat methodically, automatically accepting Athos’s affection. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks, when Athos gets up to pay. 

“Yes,” Sylvie says. 

“I’ll take the afternoon off,” Athos says, when he comes back. “Treville can manage dinner, I’m not rota-ed on for this Sunday anyway, I only went in to do the stock.”

Sylvie doesn’t protest, she’d like the company. Something to tether her here, something to distract her. Porthos leaves them after lunch, returning to the gym, and they walk along the top of the cliff, away from the woods and the town, at a meandering pace. The sea is beautiful and calming and Sylvie finds herself drifting, detaching gently, holding onto her surroundings and Athos and letting herself go. They reach the track up to the house after a half hour and take it slowly, Athos making out-loud mental notes about what he wants the garden to look like. Sylvie smiles as his thoughts reflect how much he’s listened to her, her own ideas on his tongue. He gives her affectionate little pats when he says her ideas, giving her credit, drawing out the picture of the garden as it might be this summer with his descriptions. The house comes into sight soon, across the lawn, Porthos’s Fat Boy hammock left out last night bright red on the patio. The house is four stories and red brick, owned at one point by Aramis’s father but given to Aramis as a tumble down mess for his twentieth birthday. Between Athos, Porthos and Aramis they rebuilt the house, stripping it down to its structure and redoing almost everything themselves. It took years and a lot of hard work but now it’s a beautiful place, and since Sylvie started doing the gardens it’s wonderful outside, too.

Sylvie doesn’t work, she hasn’t for years. She couldn’t, for a long time. Between the depression and anxiety and then the flashbacks to her father’s death she could barely function. She got by benefits and sofa surfed until she’d begun doing gardening for therapy, then she’d done a few small jobs, got a portfolio together, doing a bit of freelance work when she was well enough. She’s ended up, somehow, in Wales, in this garden, and hasn’t worked since. She spends her days in the garden doing work on it, or with paper and pens around her doing drawings of her flowers and plants, or at the punch bag Porthos has hung from an oak tree, or the one inside. Boxing helps her mood and health but it’s more working with Porthos that helps, the gentle coaxing, the pushing, the way he takes the time to point out all the ways his pupils are doing well and succeeding. He doesn’t just train people, he builds them up, builds their esteem and confidence in themselves. 

“Sylvie?” Athos asks, bringing her back to the present where they’re stood on the patio. He smiles when she blinks. “I forgot my keys, lovely.”

“You always forget them,” Sylvie says, pulling hers out and letting them in. They don’t lock up very often, living in the middle of nowhere, but Aramis is on a security kick right now. 

Sylvie goes through the house unlocking things and opening windows, then she heads for Porthos’s private rooms on the third floor, making herself at home in his livingroom. He doesn’t mind her coming to sit in here, it’s so peaceful and such a gentle space. Athos’s room is always a tip and Sylvie’s own is currently a little off kilter, she’s spent the week out of sorts and it feels unhappy in there. They have various bedrooms between them and they all tend to share their space but Porthos likes to have a few rooms that are just his. Athos has a bedroom for himself, Aramis sleeps wherever he’s welcome, Sylvie has her office in the conservatory at the back, half greenhouse half work room, seeds and drawing things overflowing everywhere, she usually stays in Athos’s room but she and Constance have two adjoining single rooms in the attic. One day, Sylvie’s sure, Anne will come live here with Aramis, and maybe d’Artagnan, too, if he ever stops being intimidated by Athos and hero worshipping Porthos. Sylvie curls up in Porthos’s big chair by the window and settles in to reconnect to herself, paper and pen in hand to chart her physical self, her feelings, her thoughts. The urges. Athos sits at her feet, resting his head against her knee, content to just be with her while she works. 

He’s the first thing she feels, his warm head against her knee, she reaches down and feels the texture of his hair, the softness of his skin. He smiles up at her and she feels the sweep of warmth and emotion and sinks into it, letting it bring the sadness and grief of missing her father, the bad memories, the exhaustion. She writes it all down and stretches, enjoying the movement of her muscles, the way the sunshine spreads through her, the rush of happiness. She enjoys it while it lasts and writes it down to remember it, flicking to the back of her book to add ‘happiness’ and ‘enjoyment’ to the dictionary of emotions she’s building, charting what each feels like, how each affects her physicality, her mood. When she’s done Athos reads to her for a while, by which time Aramis and d’Artagnan have returned, Constance is home from work, Porthos is just getting in. It’s Porthos’s turn to cook and Sylvie goes to watch. There isn’t anyone more connected to their physicality than Porthos and it’s a lesson, to watch him. She copies some of his movements as he moves around the kitchen, following him, stretching now and then, leaning on his shoulder to watch the pasta with him, the onions. Enjoys the smells of the cooking, the sensory part of it. Athos comes in after a while and reminds her to take her meds. She finds Aramis in the bathroom and he holds up his weekly pill box with a commiserating look, she fetches her own and they head to the dining room, setting them by their respective plates. 

Dinner is quiet, Aramis struggling to eat enough so that he can stomach his meds. The lunchtime ones always make him a bit queasy and by dinner he’s ready to just sleep, but he has to eat. Porthos encourages him and has made him pasta without sauce, just a little garlic-y butter, just enough to give it taste. Sylvie eats enthusiastically, she loves pasta, and takes her meds, and then sits back to chat with Athos. He tells her about the morning at work, he already did on their walk but she doesn’t remember so he tells her again. They talk about the holiday they plan to take in a few weeks, Sylvie’s plans for the garden in the next month, the possibility of her doing some pictures for the restaurant walls. The day ends quietly, Aramis napping on Porthos in the livingroom, Constance curled up with d’Artagnan reading together, Athos and Sylvie sitting with Porthos, Porthos and Sylvie talking about boxing, Athos half-listening.


End file.
